The Demon's Story
by Prtyjedi
Summary: A young boy hears the story of a Hero from times long gone. A different kind of Fable story.


Where Do Demons Go To Die? – Demon's Story

_An old woman lived at the edge of the village. She had arrived years ago, walking down the road with a pack mule in tow. She had, naturally, been welcomed – the men and women of the village were a friendly lot. They assumed she was a widow, come here to leave her old life behind. The villagers would be glad to accept her into the fold of their daily lives. The old woman promised not to be the cause of any trouble and she was given an abandoned house to settle in._

_Having expected her to be as social as they were themselves, the villagers were dismayed to discover her disinclination to engage in social mingling. She only left her house to trade for necessities. This alone the villagers had tolerated, but eventually they discovered she wasn't a widow at all; in fact, she had never been married._

_In light of this information several insalubrious stories began circulating about the new resident. After a few rounds of elimination the most widely believed rumour was that she was a witch and had been chased out of her previous place of residence. Subsequently the villagers began treating her with a cool courtesy born of both fear and disdain. She didn't appear to notice._

_Over the years she became a part of the village. It became tradition for mothers to warn their children that naughty kids were taken away by the village witch. The Witch, as she came to be called, still made her regular trips to buy her things. The children, as they grew, were naturally curious. They stayed out of the Witch's way, mostly because they knew they'd be in for a scolding if their parents found out._

_But not young Aaron, the blacksmith's son. His father didn't care and his mother warned him to stay away – a very common situation in the village. Yet Aaron persisted, though subtly. Whenever it was his turn to be the leader of the pack of children, he'd set them to play near the Witch's house. The other kids didn't really mind. Eventually a popular dare became Who Dares To Go Nearest the Witch's House. Their parents remained, naturally, oblivious. They were content to believe their offspring behaved perfectly well._

_His parents didn't know about it, but young Aaron knew the Witch. One day Aaron had dared to peek inside the house. He'd been caught, but despite his fears, no ill befell him. The Witch gave him sweet tea. And stories. Yes, she told him stories._

Once upon a time in Albion there was a Hero known as the Demon. He was known as such because in his time he had committed many a deed that could only be called evil. This was, to a great extent, a very accurate description, though his motives changed over time. In his youth he was driven by greed and desire for power. However, with age came wisdom and perspective, and his motives underwent a transformation. No more did he desire the material, oh no. It was a different hunger that drove him now: a hunger for knowledge. He wanted to know and understand everything he possibly could. With this goal clear in mind he set about gathering information, both private and public, assisted by the spoils of his violent past.

Years later, the many libraries inside his castle were filled with books, scrolls and records: copies and originals of virtually all written text known to man. Several unique pieces, coveted by veritable armies of collectors, rested within the dusty halls of the Demon's castle. Hordes of his agents travelled the land, gathering new information and recording oral tradition.

For a time, the Demon was content with the way things were. He was daily reminded by some nagging little thing of all the hate directed at him for his deeds (for his violent deeds had not stopped with this new goal – he still used them to further his new goals). He cared little. People, what precious little they understood, were meaningless. Over time, however, cracks appeared in his contentment. As he walked amongst his books he had to stop and wonder.

Age was catching up with him, the one enemy before which even the greatest Hero must bow. After he was gone, his legacy would be torn to shreds. Re-appropriated in the name of so-called justice or some obscure claim to inheritance. But, in truth, it was not this that truly concerned him: he feared as always the one true Great Unknown, the afterlife. Having cast aside the various religious views as lies meant to collect and comfort followers, he was left with no knowledge of existence after death.

The Demon also desired peace. He was not bothered by his past as he experienced it, but he was physically harried by various vengeful ill-wishers, greedy individuals and the usual congregation of sad individuals drawn to his power. The Demon wished to experience a physically present, tangible peace.

One morning, the only thing awake as usual, the Demon walked into the servants' quarters and gathered nondescript clothes and other provisions. The Demon left behind his books and scrolls, and was forevermore unmourned and never remembered for himself. Clad in a generic travelling cloak and carrying a burlap sack, he was much like any other traveller on the road, unless you believe that prattle about auras. At this moment, for all intents and purposes, the Hero known as the Demon ceased to exist to the world.

Half a mile down the road the Demon came upon a crossroads. As he watched the three roads diverge he pondered the lack of direction that dominated his journey. The three roads were identical, so the Demon decided to continue forward, choosing the right-hand road. Half the day he spent alone on the road, passing through a dense forest, until he ran across a young man sitting on the side of the road.

The man was of lean build and muscled, though subtly so. His dark brown hair was gathered in a ponytail and there was stubble on his chin. On his side was a sword and on his face a beatific smile. He was very much the proverbial knight in shining armour made manifest, even though the role of the shining armour was played by a ragged leather jerkin. He was nothing less that a hero. The Demon couldn't help but stop and stare at such a rare sight. Noticing this the young man looked up and smiled even wider, a warm smile, the smile of an idealist.

"Greetings, traveller. I have come for and I've yet a way to go. Since it seems that our direction is the same, would care for some company on the road?" The Demon considered for a moment before accepting the offer.

"It's not as if I can stop you," he muttered. And so the two men set about on the road. For a time they travelled in silence. The Demon, however, could not stop eyeing the sword at the young man's side. The silence bothered him as well; usually men like these came to kill him in the name of lofty ideals. Finally the Demon opened his mouth.

"Quite the weapon you've got there."

"Oh, this?" The young man drew the sword out a bit, revealing a few inches of pitted steel. "It's nothing special." The Demon sighed inward.

"But why do you carry it?"

"Oh, that's simple." The young man gave another beaming smile. "To vanquish evil." The Demon really couldn't think of anything to say to that. Awkward silence replaced conversation for a very long time, even if the awkwardness was on the Demon's part. Eventually he had to speak up again.

"So you want to vanquish evil?"

"Yes!" The young man chirped.

"And how exactly do you propose to do that?" the Demon asked, struggling to keep civil.

"Well, I heard a monstrous wolf is terrorizing a nearby village, so I thought I'd head there and do away with the hideous creature." The Demon thought on this.

"What makes the wolf evil? Is it not only eating, cattle or citizen, in order to feed itself? Is it not natural for a wolf to eat meat?" This silenced the young man for a while. Just as the Demon thought he had already won the argument, the young man piped up.

"But what if the wolf is a sorcerous creation? The descriptions I've heard paint a very frightening image. If so, then it is not natural." The Demon had to admit he had a point.

"Still, the wolf, if born of sorcery, did not choose to be born. It has as much right to feed as a normal wolf. And the wolf sees no distinction between a deer and a man. Both have equal right to live – Nature is ever a neutral arbiter." Another bout of silence ensued.

"So you're saying it's not in my right to kill the wolf?" the young man asked, suddenly sullen.

"It most certainly is. But it is not within your right to call the wolf evil." The young man threw up his arms in exasperation.

"But that doesn't make any difference! I still kill the damned thing!"

"Quite so. But this way your actions remain pure." Silence resumed its course, but the Demon felt much more satisfied with himself. It also pleased him that the young man actually seemed to be considering their verbal sparring match. When he thought the time was right, the Demon opened with another volley.

"What gives you the right to vanquish evil?"

"Well, because evil is... evil. If a bandit murders, rapes and pillages, he is making a choice. He's causing suffering, and it is right to stop that suffering."

"Ah. I see. And what does this stopping entail?" At this the young man grinned and rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. "I see. The Justice of Iron and Steel. But are you not in turn murdering the bandit?"

"Well, yes. But I have cause – he murdered first."

"True enough, true enough," the Demon conceded. "Say a man's family is killed by a group of four women. Later in life the man tracks down the women and brutally kills them to avenge his family. This act is witnessed by a villager who then brands the man a cruel murderer, whereupon you arrive and lop off his head in a heroic feat of daring. Are you not guilty of the same crime as your enemy then?" The young man looked at the Demon suspiciously.

"What are you getting at?"

"What I'm saying is that you cannot be sure if the bandit is evil. And what of the bandit's sons? Do they have the right to kill you?"

"Of course not. I'll have carried out justice, and you can't have revenge for justice," the young man declared firmly.

"Oh? Is that truly so?" The young man snorted.

"Damned straight it is. Justice. Is. Justice," he enunciated. It was the Demon's turn to snort. The young man halted and turned to his questioning companion.

"Look, if you had a chance to save the world, wouldn't you do it? Save the world?" he asked, his hands now fists.

"I don't know. How about you?"

"Without hesitation. Because it's right. Because then I'd be a hero." The Demon smiled, a warm lie, the smile of a liar. Their conversation didn't pick up again. After walking for a time in sullen silence they came to a crossroads. The demon continued forward, now to the middle path, while the young man turned to the right. There were no words at their parting.

* * *

Now the road took the Demon across a picturesque, rolling plain. After a time a man with two horses joined him from an adjoining road on the right. The two travellers stopped to stare at each other. The man was the first to speak.

"I've two horses and am but one man. Our direction is the same, so would you care to rest your legs?"

"Certainly," the Demon said and climbed atop a horse. The two continued onwards. The man, of a medium build with dark hair hacked short, unstopped a flask, presumably containing alcohol, and drank. He offered some to the Demon, who declined.

"Suit yourself," the man muttered, stowing the flask. The Demon found himself thinking back to the young man and their argument. For the sake of conversation he described the wolf situation to the man and asked what he thought was the right thing to do. The man barked a laugh.

"If the peasants are willing to compensate, sure: pay is pay. But if they expect you to risk life and limb out of the sheer kindness of your heart, then, well..." he trailed off and then smiled, a cold smile, the smile of a killer. "They're probably a bunch of incestuous swine anyway." The two men shared a bitter laugh. After a moment's silence the man spoke:

"Why did you ask? If you present questions like that to every traveller you meet I imagine you are often disappointed." He sipped his drink again.

"Earlier on the road I came across a most idealistic young man. He was very determined to defeat all evil." The man snorted.

"I know the type, arrogant little shits. Let me tell you: sooner or later he'll end up in some town where he'll meet some spoiled, pretty upper-class lass, and fall in love from the bottom of his heart. She'll scorn him for being an idealistic shit and he'll be heartbroken. So, he'll drown his sorrows in a stiff drink. In his drunkenness he''ll chance upon the very same young lady and in his righteous anger he'll have his way with her, because he's stronger. And once he's tasted power, he'll be very reluctant to let go. Might makes right, and he'll have been introduced to a whole new world of possibilities thanks to that." The Demon nodded thoughtfully, thinking of the familiar scenario.

"You don't think the world needs its keepers of idealism?" the Demon asked. The man shook his head.

"They're no different from the rest of us. They're just less honest. There's no point in being moral."

"I take it you don't say that because of the impossibility of absolute morals." The man laughed, humourlessly.

"Indeed not. No, my argument is that in an immoral world upholding morals of your own." Another sip. "What I'm saying is that being moral has you doing a lot of work for nothing. People strive, and fail, at that, for a moral life, because either they're afraid of some divine retribution or because they expect to be rewarded in the afterlife. I believe neither, so I am disinclined to try." From then on they travelled for a time in silence, until the man spoke up again.

"Other people are held in too high regard. Despite all those claims that man in a social creature, ultimately suffering is in large part due to other people. Do what makes you happy, but ignore others: nothing good will come of them."

"But a great deal of suffering comes from within ourselves, does it not?" the Demon asked softly. His companion said nothing, merely drunk again from his flask. "You said that there is no point in being moral, because no-one else is. What if a situation arose whereupon your moral life would inspire a great movement of peace and goodness that would sweep over all land? Would you change your position?"

"No. It wouldn't last, that movement. Nothing ever lasts."

"But we're speaking hypothetically. What if such a thing were possible in our hypothetical situation?" the man looked at the Demon with a hint of sadness, maybe even regret, in his eyes.

"That just doesn't happen," the man said with a note of finality, before turning to look into horizon. "Say I could save the world. I wouldn't. Things like that require sacrifice, and the sacrifice would be for nothing." The man turned to his companion. "Why should I save the world, when the very people I'm saving it for will ruin it?" With those words the conversation died away. They rode together until they came to a crossroads. The man continued forward whereas the Demon veered to the right. The man told him to keep the horse, as he only needed the one.

* * *

The road took the Demon upon a craggy mountainside path. The road climbed higher up the mountain. Eventually he met an old man who was sitting on a cracked stone bench. He looked tired and weary. The old man's eyes alighted upon the Demon.

"Hello, young man," he said, his breath wheezing.

"I'm not that young myself," said the Demon with a chuckle.

"We're travelling the same direction. I am old and weary and you have a horse. Could I borrow your steed?" After a moment's consideration the Demon surrendered his horse and helped the old man mount the horse. Then they set out on the road. The old man had frequent coughing fits, and the coughs weren't entirely dry, either. To the Demon the whole situation was slightly awkward. The silence, lack of conversation, bothered him, so to open a dialogue he once again described the wolf scenario.

"I don't really think that I have much to say in the matter," the old man rasped. "I do not control my destiny – it has been determined long since."

"So you believe some divine being is controlling your actions?"

"I don't know... I can't know! I'm just an old man, what do I know of such grand matters?"

"You just said you believe that destiny is predetermined."

"I don't know what determines it. I reiterate; how can I?"

"So you go through life claiming you can't know anything?"

"But I can't! I can make assumptions and theories, but I can't say they're fact."

"So you do believe something!"

"I have my theories..." the old man conceded, but didn't continue. The Demon did not pursue the matter, as the old man seemed genuinely exhausted by the exchange.

"I believe," said the old man suddenly. "in causality, for the most part. Our free will is subject to action and reaction, repeating endlessly."

"I see. But if we follow this path of thinking, it must be said that with enough information one could determine all that has happened and all that will happen." The old man nodded. "But if we can know in advance this way that I will, for example, die in battle two weeks from now, I can change that by committing suicide today. I will have changed the future."

"My thoughts exactly. Destiny is predetermined until you become aware of it."

"So you believe that destiny can be altered."

"Only in theory. In practice it is virtually impossible." The discussion ended there. There was a question the Demon very much wanted to ask, but he felt reluctant. He was, possibly, slightly embarrassed by the question. Then again, maybe he was frustrated. For the moment he chose to remain silent. The old man's hacking cough was the only sound on the mountain path.

"Does growing old, being old, bother you?" the Demon asked instead. "Feeling your own body failing you."

"I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"The helplessness of being weak without a way to become strong, the despair of feeling all you know slip away, never to return."

"Well, I don't know. I really doubt it's worth knowing anyway."

"How can you say that? Your memories are the only true record of your life, already in itself unique. How can unique _not _be worthy?"

"Easily. I have nothing in my past, so it's hard to consider it all that important."

"And what about your body failing you?"

"Well, it's just a matter of exerting yourself less." The Demon thought hard of a poignant reply, but came up with nothing.

"So death doesn't scare you?" the Demon asked faintly.

"No, not really. I used to think that I'd regret all that I hadn't gotten around to do. But now I suppose it's all right. After all, it's a release of sorts."

"It scares me," admitted the Demon. "I've spent all my life, or at least the important part of my life, gathering knowledge, seeking understanding. That is the sum of my strivings. Dying, even just growing old and forgetting, scares me – it would be the destruction of all I ever worked for."

"The trick, as far as I'm concerned, is realizing that nothing matters. Your life, your knowledge, they amount to nothing. Nothing good will come of worrying about your legacy. You'll be dead!" the old man exclaimed almost gleefully. The Demon nodded slowly. "I've watched old men like me worry to no end about whether or not they'll be remembered, and then _how_ they will be remembered. I find this very puzzling. Salvation, damnation or oblivion, I won't be in a position to care. This life will be behind me for good." The Demon nodded once again; the old man's points were all valid. He still had his last question.

"If you could save the world, would you?" The old man's eyes grew teary and he gazed into the distance.

"I can't save the world. If I tried I'd fail. There is nothing I can do any more." They had descended from the mountainside a ways back, and now stood at a crossroads. The old man continued to the right on horseback, as the Demon let him keep the horse. The Demon didn't continue, as he found that he was hungry and tired, so he sat down on the side of the road. From his travelling bag he dug a loaf of bread, an apple and some meat. He sat there, enjoying his meal, and watched the lively forest around him.

He thought upon his peculiar journey, and on the afterlife that bothered him so much. After a while of mulling over it, he realized something. As the old man had said, damnation, salvation or oblivion, he won't care. If he wound up, for whatever reason,in a place of peace and joy for the virtuous or even the eternal suffering of damnation with the vile and the malicious, he'd be worse for it, being forced to deal with people for eternity. Oblivion, sweet nothing at all, was the best possibility. But no matter what the outcome, he'd push through. Even in the underworld there was knowledge to gather. His earthly legacy? Puff. He hoped the information, the knowledge, would be preserved, as unlikely as it was.

He was satisfied with his answer. He leaned back and watched. The forest scene before him was very tranquil. In nature one could find monumental, overwhelming peace. And he realized: he was at peace! This discovery made him very happy.

The Demon made a decision. He had achieved all he had set out to achieve, and a moment of profound beauty was upon him. To preserve this all, he took out a knife and slit his own throat.

There was no pain. The Demon, a hated and cursed creature, died happier than any of those who judged him.

* * *

A/N: OK, that's that. I'll have to include one statement in the end, here, because some people might raise the issue. _**I am not advocating suicide in any way**. _Just because I'm using it as a plot device and it can be within the story viewed as desirable, does **_not_** mean I am advocating suicide. Furthermore, I have more experience with it than most people, so anyone who would like to point out anything along those lines can kindly shut up. Proper feedback, however, is welcomed, even if the story is a little outside the norm.


End file.
